


Historie d'un Amour

by surrenderdammit



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of K/S drabbles. There will be canon, AU, genderbent; a healthy mix. </p>
<p>
  <i>"He was standing next to me," he says, seeing the same confusion in another pair of eyes, "but he seemed really far away. I was trying to close the gap."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legs

He ran a finger gently along her calf, following the soft muscles up to twirl her bent knee and elicit the predicted twitch of sensitive nerve endings responding to his stimuli, with the giggle being a slightly belated reaction.

"Your legs are smoother than others who practice the ritual of shaving," he noted, tracing his finger up her thighs and sliding it along her hipbone; gently brushing past her modest patch of fur still slightly damp from their earlier activities. From his place by her side, his head propped up on an elbow alongside her taunt stomach; he had the optimal view and touching range. Most pleasing.

She huffed. "And how many have you gone around touching to come to that conclusion?"

There was no real anger in her tone, he noted; marveling for just a moment at how well he could read this human at times. Not always, he admitted; it still eluded him sometimes. But it was to be expected; she was a paradox, illogical then logical and easy then difficult. The only constant was the golden hue of her mind (and heart, if he were to subscribe to the human poetics) and the bright shine of her smile.

"You know the answer to this question, cadet," he responded, sweeping his gaze from her damp sex and up to her perky breasts. Small, they only just fitted in his palms, but they were firm, round and warm and so very sensitive.

"Yeah yeah," she grumbled, squirming under his lazy gaze caressing her nipples. He thought his finger, now joined by two others, at the delicate skin beneath her belly button might be equally responsible. "It's 'cause of the laser treatment. Got tired of shaving every third day and vaxing is too painful. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a masochist. Though, sometimes, I wonder Spock."

He quirked a brow, not bothering to look up and confirm what he already knew would be a sly smirk on those bruised lips. The tightening of her nipples were more relative to his interests. "Fascinating," he said, "I would have assumed your economy did not allow for such vain indulgences."

"Yeah, they charge way too much!" came her immediate reply, and he could hear her pout, but chanced a glance up to confirm it anyway because it did wonderful things to her expression. "But it's just, like, one treatment and you're done for eternity. So it's worth it, and they know it, those bastards. Anyway, I didn't pay for it; I'm way too good for that. And here I was, thinking you knew me Spock!"

He moved his fingers down to pet through her curls and part her lips, sinking into moist warmth of mixed fluids. A content hum and a slight twitch was the response. "Please, do enlighten me Jamie."

His body so close prevented her right leg from spreading as wide as her left was currently doing; inviting him to continue, please. "Mmm," she sighed, stretching slightly and arching her back, his eyes still adoring her breasts as they were pushed up and almost brushed his nose. "I built my own machine, of course. I lived close to the shipyard in Riverside, so technology, equipment and material were close at hand. Easy-peasy."

He stiffened, glaring up at her in disproval. "That was unwise. It is a medical procedure and you are neither a qualified doctor nor do you possess a degree in Medical Engineering."

She bumped her leg against his and rolled her eyes. "I was thirteen; young and dumb. But it turned out just fine. You weren't complaining minutes ago, were you? Unless you have anything against 'smooth legs'."

"It would perhaps pacify me to know that 'young and dumb' is no longer an issue," he began, eyes narrowing as he removed his fingers from her wet heat to trail moisture along her belly and push gently against the underside of her breast. "However, current statistics show a rather discouraging result."

"Now that's just mean," she pouted, hands coming down to bury themselves into his silky hair and messing it up further. The action moved her breasts together and created a pleasing cleft, and he easily snuck his hand up to cup one of them roughly; thumb moving in eager circles around a pink nipple. "When have I ever done anything to deserve that?"

Teasing now, she didn't wait for his answer but with her grip of his head pulled him up for a deep, lazy kiss. In favor of sampling her unique taste – together with the bitter tang of himself still lingering – he opted to forego the argument, for now.

When they – he didn't know who needed the air, couldn't quite grasp who pushed away and who clung, and didn't really think it mattered anyway – finally broke free it was already forgotten.


	2. Breasts

"They don't fit the same way in your hands anymore," she pouted, leaning heavily against his warm chest. It was hard against her back; slimmed muscles and dense bones, cushioned only slightly by a black dusting of hair. His large hands stilled their soft caress, slipping underneath to cup her full breasts and adding to her statement as it emphasized their new size.

"It is only logical," he said, voice softer now in the privacy of their quarters. "It is a natural development of your biological changes, my sweet."

She smiled at his endearment, unable to suppress her reaction and unwilling to anyway. It was no doubt his intent. Rolling her eyes, she nudged him none-too-gently in the ribs with her elbow (he was Vulcan, he could take it, the big sissy). "Duh! I'm just saying…I liked them better before."

Humming in a not-reply (he was distracted, and well on his way to distract her too, if his hands kept that up). "Seriously Spock," she began, but gave up with a giggle as his one hand traced down her side to count her ribs and tease her nerves. She was  _not_  ticklish, dammit!

"I love you," he said, breathing into her ear now as he pressed himself closer to her back. One hand cupping her breast still, the other now resting gently on her full hip. "You are beautiful."

By now, she shouldn't have a reason to blush. How many times had he not whispered those words? Still her cheeks heated, and she titled her head in silent invitation. His nose found the juncture of her neck and shoulder immediately, nosing gently and breathing her scent lazily.

"You have always been beautiful," he continues, and she almost laughs, but not quite, because her back is sore and her feet ache and he is so warm, and gentle, and the love pouring from his skin, their bond, his words…it washes it all away. Had he been anyone else but Spock, she would've denied this, but she couldn't, because it didn't matter if she needed it, if she allowed herself to soften and mellow into a  _woman_. Because it was Spock, and she loved him more than life itself.

"As a young cadet," he placed a kiss on her shoulder, "as a young Captain," and moved his hands away from their resting places to caress her stomach, "as my wife," and she sighed, "as the mother of my child."

"Always beautiful, Jamie."

How could she doubt him?


	3. Queen of Hearts

She was dressed in a too-big leather jacket, black but worn down to fading grey in places. It was stitched with different logos, the most eye-catching a large Ace card, the red heart bright on her left side.

_He thinks it should be green, but it still wouldn't be an accurate representation of the organ._

She had a pair of matching shorts, black leather cracked and damaged, and her stockings were torn and her shoes hugging her ankles and with the sharp heels were patched with black tape.

_The old Andorian by the street corner who was missing an antenna, and reeked of Romulan ale, shivered at the name. He hadn't seen him since he'd pointed him in the right direction._

A white top could be seen through her baggy jacket, with glimpses of suspenders strung over her breasts.

_He remembered her smell, from when he clutched her to him and bled green. He remembered that she didn't wear a bra._

The red on her lips were bright compared to the smoky black around her eyes, and if perhaps her hair was a bit too messy it didn't matter, because she wore a fedora to hide spiky locks of blonde.

_She'd left with a name for the chase and he'd been running to catch up ever since._

"You count cards."

He doesn't deny it.  _He hasn't spoken yet because he's finally here and words seem inadequet._

"You barely glance at them, but you never lose track, do you?"

He doesn't admit it, either.  _She's smiling again._

"First time playing poker?"

"Yes."  _He can't help it._

There is a gun  _(.44 Magnum Colt Anaconda, production 1990-1999, weight 53 oz, length 11⅝ in, barrel length 6 in bbl)_ in her hand and he wonders where it came from. Her long legs are stretched over the desk.  _Mahogany, he notes._ There's a piece of gum stuck underneath her left shoe.

"Also your first time underground, isn't it, darling?"

She's shifting in her seat. The light hits her face for the first time as she titles her head.  _She's got freckles._

"I have ventured down in cellars and other facilities located beneath ground level before."

Her laugh isn't as cold as he had expected, or as harsh. It's soft, like the curve of her cheek.  _She's young._

"I like you. I'm Jamie Kirk, Mr. Tall Dark Stranger."

She's the Queen of Hearts  _the Queen of mine_  and she welcomes you to  _the Enterprise,_  Mr. Spock  _and he can't help but smile._


	4. Blue Suede Shoes (part 1/?)

It was perfectly logical.

A child was expected of him, but he had no desire to sire one with a female and have her carry the child with her for the required time. It was a child who would have no mother, for he had no life mate, and with the option of bypassing a need of any close relation for any amount of time between  _his_  child and the ca _rrier_  was not only logical but desirable. His child should not be exposed to something only to lose it.

With that, Spock signed the PADDs for a sperm donation, a request for a desirable sample and finally the contract of a test tube in one of the finest labs in San Francisco.

The human female behind the counter smiled pleasantly as he handed her the signed PADDs, putting them away neatly to be filed. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. You will be sent a collection of potential male donators based off of your requirements at the earliest opportunity."

"I will be able to request further information of any candidates, as well as conduct a more personal inquiry, should I desire to?" He raised a brow at the light giggle stifled behind a manicured hand his statement provoked, once again hindered by human nature as it provided no logical explanation.

"Yes, you've stated a wish to contact the donators personally in your application, so any candidates listed will have to have chosen not to donate anonymously," she assured him, her short lapse of professionalism covered up by her previous well-practiced smile. "Do you have any more questions?"

He paused, mentally checking over the information he had gathered about the subject to see if something was lacking, and settled for a satisfied tilt of his head. "No, I believe I am in possession of all the necessary information. I will take my leave."

"Great!" she nodded. "If something comes up, just leave a comm. and it'll be solved. Good day!"

He returned her parting with a silent gesture before moving towards the exit. It occurred to him he hadn't gotten her name, and wondered if he'd offended another human custom by not asking when it hadn't been offered.

**oOo**

The final list was slightly short. He'd spent the following week eliminating most of the candidates suggested to him, visiting a few to conduct short interviews that left much to be desired. He was in no way illogically fixated on looks, but he did not want a child with wild, untamable hair or an abnormally large nose. Nor was it desirable for the child to have any kind of inherited tendency for dressing in clashing colors.

There were a lot of things that were not desirable, he noted, having come down to one last candidate. He hadn't foreseen such trouble with finding someone suitable, and so, he found himself staring at the human female – whose name he now knew was Carol – through a visual comm. from his quarters. The last one collected hair of different alien species.

_"Seems like you're in luck after all, Mr. Spock!"_  the woman cheered, her eyes fixed on the PADD in her hands.  _"We've just received a match this week! Should I send it over directly?"_

"That would be agreeable."

_"Okay, sent and delivered! We'll keep digging around for more, should you need it. Good luck, Mr. Spock!"_

"Thank you." His personal PADD beeped after he closed the transmission, and he reached over to browse through the file.

_Human,_ he noted. With…impressive academic records. His brow lifted. Most impressive, especially for a human. The medical records were clean, few visits as a child and only for understandable injuries for a human (a broken bone, allergic reactions). He seemed to have calmed as a young teenager, there were no records at all during a long period, which was admittedly strange for his species. In fact, apart from a few allergies the male seemed healthy. The impressive levels of intelligence were promising as well.

_James Tiberius Kirk,_ he read, taking note of his current residence and contact information, putting together a comm. to request a meeting at the soonest opportunity.

**oOo**

He silently hoped that the suggestion of meeting in the park for what would be a rather personal conversation was not a sign of another undesirable quirk, but he resolved to overlook it this time in light of the singular records of the man.

Looking around, he took in his surroundings. A couple were having a traditional human meal called picnic further away on the grass, a young child was regrettably playing with an eager, unleashed dog and a few lone humans could be found making their way down the path he was currently travelling. Blue Suede shoes, Mr. Kirk's latest comm. had read. Although he'd done his research, and seen the human's picture (if he were human he'd call the man handsome, or even stunning), he agreed that it would be easier to make him out among others. However, simply deciding a definite meeting place would have sufficed.

He spotted a bench further down, where a young man was slouched with a steaming mug of liquid in his hands. His short hair was wind-blown, and he was dressed in a thick sweater and scarf to fight off the chill of autumn. A shoulder bag lay by his feet, and…there they were, the blue suede shoes.

**oOo**

"So, do I get a passing grade?" Kirk said, grinning pleasingly (he's expressed a strong dislike of formality, stating they were already on a more personal level than ordinary, given the purpose of their conversation).

Spock titled his head, resisting an illogical urge to roll his eyes. An unfortunate trait inherited from his mother.

"You are a desirable candidate, yes," he agreed, wondering how a smile could be warm. "However, I would prefer to meet again before making my decision."

Kirk nodded. "Yeah, it's a pretty big thing. So what about the weekend? You up to something?"

"I am not," he confessed, curious at the easy interaction with this human. He had never experienced it to such a degree with a stranger before. Clearly, there were more to humans than he'd come to expect.

"Great! Wanna get together for chess? You seemed interested."

"That would be agreeable."

Kirk smiled. "I've a feeling we're gonna get along great."

**oOo**

James T. Kirk donated sperm because he liked the idea of someone sharing his genes  _("-Dad died in action shortly after I was born, he was on a mission in space at the time. Mum and my brother died when I was 13, and I've been mostly raised in foster families after that.-")_ , and because he was convinced he would never find someone to raise a child with. He hadn't calmed as a teenager, simply stopped going to the hospital, because he'd constructed his own medical equipment and he disliked the atmosphere of a medical building  _("—besides, my best friend's a doctor. He's at the Academy with me. A real barrel of sunshine and rainbows and puppies.—")_. He was currently in Starfleet, Command track, and aspired to become a Captain.

Although very human, he was stimulating, and honest.  _("—I've done things, and made choices in my life, that haven't been the best. Bones says I have a mutated instinct to survive, and I never give up, and circumstances made that take root in ways that it normally wouldn't. I'm not perfect, no one is, and you shouldn't look for it. Genes might be important, I understand what you're doing, but you'll raise the kid right regardless. It'll be fine, whatever you choose. I've a knack of knowing the character of people, and you seem pretty awesome, Spock.-")_

He was also the first to beat him in chess since his relocation to earth.

_("-Check mate, Mr. Spock!-")_


	5. Rollerblades

"Oh my god, are you okay man?" Large, crystal-blue eyes filled his vision and for a moment it was all he saw, before he blinked and the world came into focus once again. The eyes belonged to a young, male, human face with sharp lines and soft lips; it delayed his reaction further to be so up close to something so desirable. It was the last thought that snapped him back to reality.

He was on his back, the hard ground of the sidewalk cold beneath him. 2.3 minutes ago he had been hit by a strong force coming from around the street corner and knocked to the ground, where he'd been lying shocked for 0.54 minutes before firm hands grabbed his shoulders and stroked his face, feelings of guilt and worry and shock seeping though skin and his compromised mental shields.

"I'm so sorry! Are you  _hurt?_  Do you need an ambulance? Can you speak? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He appeared to be a young teenager, perhaps 15 or 16 years of age. Approximately 3 years younger than himself.

"You have not given me an opportunity to answer either of your inquiries before you have put forth a new. But no, besides from an understandable ache from the impact my back had on the ground, I am sound. Obviously, I am still in possession of my speech abilities, and you can remove your two fingers from my face now that I have, indeed, seen that there are two of them."

The human youth blinked. "Holy shit, man. I'm just glad you're okay. Here, let me help you up!"

He was about to protest, but the boy was already enthusiastically hauling him up on his feet. Apparently, the human was strong for his species.

"Geez, you must weight a fucking ton man!"

But still just a human.

"As a Vulcan, I have a denser bone structure than a typical human, thus generating a higher weight than you would assume." The boy grinned at his response, grabbing his shoulder to give it a shake. He hadn't taken much notice of the proximity of the human before that moment, and he was disturbed to note this was because the usual distaste present when he had his privacy invaded wasn't present. It was, most likely, because of the warm pulse of human feelings of _relief, amusement, interest, curiosity_ and something new but equally warm, if a bit different. He wondered what it was.

"Yeah, yeah; you're not fat, I get it man," he grinned, holding up a hand when he was about to comment on that statement. "Save it. You're really okay then? Because shit, I'm really sorry about this. Anyway I can make it up for you?"

"I am sound," he repeated, titling his head. "And what occurred were clearly an accident and not a conscious attack on your part, with any intentions of causing harm. I see no reason for an apology, when you have already stayed to make sure of my health. However, may I inquire what you were doing?"

It earned him what his mother called a 'sheepish' grin. "Just skating," the teen replied, nodding towards his feet which were encased in a pair of wheeled shoes. Fascinating. "I was late for a meeting at the skate park, still am now, but it's kinda a lost cause now. So it's cool. Do you skate? Like, rollerblades or skateboard or something?"

He must have done something funny in the moments it took him to consider such an absurdity; because the young man was laughing by the time he was ready to form a reply. "I have never, nor do I think I ever will."

"Oh come on, can't diss it before you try it man!"

"Diss?" He was confused.

The boy made a face. "Yeah, like, degrade, look down on, that sorta thing."

"Interesting. You make a valid point."

"I always do!" His eyebrow twitched at the arrogance clear in the words and the human's smile. "By the way, what's your name?"

Human social customs, he noted. "My name is Spock. Might I inquire of yours?"

"You may inquire anything about me, Mr. Spock," came the reply, his voice suddenly changed to something subtly warmer, darker. He paused to wink before continuing. "And the name's Jim. It was nice meeting you, not every day I run into someone as hot as myself! You should come by the park sometime; I'd like to see you again."

He was about to comment on the biological differences in body temperature before questioning the logic of expressing a desire to meet a stranger again for no apparent reason, but before he got a chance, Jim had hit his shoulder without any real force, grinned, and gone off with an alarmingly high speed.

"See ya Spock!"

He was left puzzled standing still on the sidewalk and ignoring the occasional glances his way as he regarded the back of the boy disappearing down the street.

It took him a week before he happened to be in the area, and dropped by the skate park because he'd never been there and it was always interesting to see new places. Of course, he'd been to two more in that week and this was the first place he returned to the next day.

His mother insisted to buy overly decorative blue rollerblades, when the black pair would've been more desirable. But he didn't really mind, because Jim liked them, and at places, the shade of blue matched his eyes.


	6. Music Meme

1\. Magnus Weideskog - 20 år

He's turning 20 and he doesn't really know what to do with his life, but that's nothing new. He's sitting by the quarry, heavy intoxication subdued by the chilly night-air to a heavy buzz. The sky's expanding above him; dark blue with diamonds mocking him with their beauty, as he sits in dirt and bleeds.

Breathing in deeply, the smell of alcohol and smoke and blood is overpowered by the crisp air of the dry nature around him. He doesn't know what he wants, but he knows what he doesn't want. It's easier to dismiss possibilities than seek them out.

He doesn't want to become a hero; he doesn't want to die only to be glorified. He doesn't want to lose the love of his life and fuck up his kids. He didn't want to become what others said; a criminal, a failure, maybe a chance to become his father's son.

Smiling, he ignores the sting of a broken lip. 20 years, he never thought that'd be difficult.

* * *

2\. R.E.M - Shiny Happy People

It's almost sickly amusing to watch, he muses. Shoreleave couldn't have come at a better time. It's been 10 months and two weeks since the Enterprise embarked on its 5 year mission, and its young crew had grown to fit their ranks and their roles on the ship. He was proud, ridiculously so. But the last few strings of missions had taken their toll, and so the stop by one of the few pleasure planets nearby had come as a greatly anticipated break.

Seriously, they were fucking  _holding hands_ around him; couples letting their hair down and those unattached eagerly seeking out pleasant company. Perhaps ironically, he was glad he wasn't approached.

These shiny, happy people deserved what they could get, and he wasn't about to sully their mood. He was perfectly happy himself to merely observe, and wouldn't that make Spock do a double take. Snorting, he downed his drink and gestured for another. Just one more, then he'd go outside, and put the stars into a perspective he hadn't observed properly since he left Earth.

* * *

3\. Eliza Doolittle - So High

It's fucking insane, Jim thinks, holding onto whatever he could of the warm body before him. "Don't leave," he slurs. His head is aching, but nowhere near as much as his heart.

"You are not in your full mental capaties, Captain."

Oh, if only he knew. "I just…need you to know, Spock. I need you. I want you."

Yet Jim knows it's not for him, and the way he stiffens in his arms tells him so.

"Selfish," he hisses, and Jim's arms drop and he's backing away. That's right, he needs to let him go. He nods. "Yes."

Spock is happy; he knows that, can see it in his eyes. Why is he trying to destroy that? He doesn't know, there's something wrong, and then he collapses. Time is up, is his last thought, before darkness frees him.

* * *

4\. R Kelly - Chocolate Factory

"So, you got in a big fight, what's the deal? People proclaim their hate all the time when emotionally compromised, doesn't mean they always mean it, you know."

Spock stiffened. "This is true? If a human during an argument says they hate you, it is not always the case? I was given to understand such a proclamation would mark the end of a relationship, quite logically."

"You just have to win her back, that's all!" Jim shrugs, grinning. "And I have the perfect recipe!"

"I beg your pardon?" Spock looked confused. Oh well, he'd be too if he'd been Spock and Uhura had dumped him. Seriously, how is she NOT hanging onto him with claws and teeth?

"First, woo her with some flowers and apologies. Do some of that logical shit, but add some emotion and make her feel as if that only happens around her. Well, that shouldn't be so difficult…anyway," Jim rambled, getting up from behind his desk where Spock had first cornered him with this conversation, "take her out for dinner, and put on some meaningful music."

How Spock could look vaguely amused under the circumstances should've been his first clue something was wrong, but he was quite caught up with his own genius. "What kind of music would you suggest, Jim?"

He grinned. "Chocolate factory, by . Old Earth song, real smooth and icky sweet. Makes a good song, given that gorgeous skin and your fondness for chocolate, yes?"

A pause. "But Jim, your skin is too fair to resemble anything but white chocolate. I do not think it would be appropriate."

Hold on a minute, he must be missing something. Spock not-smiled, eyeing him fondly. Yes, definitely missing something.

* * *

5\. Travie McCoy - Billionaire

"You know what be awesome, Bones?"

He didn't know, nor was he very inclined to find out. Perhaps….

"If I became a super-awesome Captain with an endless supply of credits. Like, a billionaire times a thousand."

…no, ignoring the problem most certainly did NOT get rid of it. Dammit.

"Jim, shut up and eat your vegetables," he grumbled, thinking it was too… _in-the-middle-of-the-day_  for this kind of crap.

"But seriously, I'd buy everything I'd always wanted! Doesn't that appeal to you? Oh yeah, and I'd be on the front-page of every magazine all over the Federation, and just imagine how many chicks, dudes, both or of various unknown genders I'd get to bang! Seriously, I'd buy the fucking Enterprise if they haven't given it to me for my awesome by then!"

He shuddered. "I didn't want to  _ever_  imagine how many STDs a person could possibly contract, but you continue to horrify me Jim. Also, fame isn't all that great and you know it."

"Yeah yeah! A man can dream, right?"

"I'll remind you of this conversation sometime, Jim, because I know the need will arise."

"So you think I'll be an awesome, unbeatable billionaire times a thousand Captain, do you, Bones?"

"No, I think you'll go down in history for all those STDs and end up as a prime example in every medical textbook all over the federation. Are you seriously gonna make me shove those vegetables down your throat, you fat bastard?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, mum."


	7. I Told You So

Several months along – with mostly diplomatic and flexing Starfleet muscles kind of missions – the, for every ship in the 'Fleet now, inevitable detour to the Vulcan colony occurred. Jim was mostly curious about the progress of the Vulcans and the previous ships sent their way, having been too distracted by his new Captaincy to dedicate much attention to things that didn't relate to the mission at hand, or concerned his ship in general. Only in the now less stilted conversations with Spock over a game of chess in the rec rooms, or over a shared meal in the mess, did he receive updates.

It hadn't been that he hadn't cared, he just forgot to look into it himself – something he thought better not to share with Spock. The shaky ground of their acquaintance was finally steadying, and Jim really didn't want to mess it up. If not for the sake of their easy syncing in command, then for the warmth he could detect in those slightly human eyes at times, and the challenge his frustratingly logical mind offered his own chaotic (but no less awesome, of course) mind.

Once they arrived, however, Jim was able to observe the progress himself, and compare what Spock had relied. Construction was still underway, although an impressive amount of buildings had already been erected. The streets were busier than he would've imagined; filled with Starfleet staff posted on the colony and their Vulcan colleagues as they walked with purpose. One of the first buildings completed, the new Vulcan Science Academy, proved to be the meeting point of all the projects running, as it was the busiest place yet, from what Jim could discern. Unsurprisingly so, he mused, with so many things needing to be rebuilt from scratch and so few with the fully qualified knowledge left. They had obtained a working balance between putting their resources to use, while creating new ones, through learning by doing. Pretty much what Starfleet was doing in the wake of losing most of their senior graduates, and one of the reasons Jim had done the leap from Cadet to Captain.

Learning by doing, indeed.

He shook his head, and stood up straight from where he'd been reclining against the wall, looking out over the groups of Starfleet and Vulcans moving about. He was on a break, having just left a meeting with the High Council that had, unsurprisingly, given him a killer headache. Jim suspected it was mostly his own fault though, because even if Vulcans were less tolerant and logical as they seemed to think, they weren't all that bad after the week the Enterprise had been stationed here. He was just really bad at remembering to eat and drink enough in this heat and the high tempo and all-consuming focus it demanded of him. Fumbling and learning on the way as he was, the Council didn't give off the understanding vibes, and Jim – for many reasons – didn't want to fail this people. He'd been a witness to their loss, he had a friend (well, two, but they were in some ways the same person) among them, and he'd had up close and personal experience with genocide. This time, he was able to do something other than just survive; now he had a chance to save, to heal.

With all this on his mind, some things were put aside. He couldn't help it that his body was used to hunger and thirst from all those years ago, and could keep him running as his brain unconsciously disconnected any signals of discomfort that could alert and remind him of the need for food and water. Anything to keep going, anything to stay standing.

Only, he didn't have the threat of death hanging over him now. Sighing, Jim started walking across the square, spotting an improvised food place nearby. With their corps still growing, the colony was heavily dependent on replicators, and little resources could be spent on investing in things such as public restaurants. Substance could be found in private homes, and places such as the cafeteria of the VSA. A few were required though, for the sake of those conducting work outside of settings like those, and Jim sent a mental thank you to whoever had decided the idea held enough merit.

On his way, he attracted a few more stares than he'd managed standing in the shadows of the building whose wall he'd made use of, his golden command tunic standing out among the subdued colors of Vulcan robes and the science blue and the common redshirts of Starfleet surrounding him. He nodded in acknowledgement at the random salutes of his crewmembers and the respectful small head-bows of Vulcans who recognized his position.

He made it all the way to the restaurant, getting his food and drink, and looking up a place to sit in the shadows (a convenient improvised bench a bit further away served well), before someone caught him in conversation.

T'Sal, an intriguing Vulcan female he'd interacted with before on the various projects he'd sought out to help with, sat down beside him. Her son, a constant companion Jim had come to get used to by now (and, he admitted, a bit charmed), remained standing.

"Are your duties done for the day, Captain? It is getting late," T'Sal commented after their greeting, Jim swallowing the strange spring roll like wrapping of unknown vegetables to reply.

"Nah, just taking a break. I never stop being Captain," he said, winking and getting a raised brow in response. He had a theory about that; it was suspiciously common among Vulcans. He wondered what Spock would think of it, and promptly had to take a sip of water to hide his grin. Shrugging, he continued. "Had a meeting with the Council, nothing new. How about you? Anything interesting you've got to share, Serron?"

He directed his last question to the solemn teenager, who perked up as much as a Vulcan could at being invited into the conversation. T'Sal turned her attention to her son as well, shifting closer to where Jim sat. He had a theory about that too, one which Bones rolled his eyes at ("I don't believe it, charming the pants off a  _Vulcan?_  Don't come crying to be when this goes to hell!") and Spock frowned upon ("Captain, a relationship is not to be taken lightly with a Vulcan. I must ask that you cease with this venture."). Problem was, he wasn't really  _doing_  anything. He talked, about work. He was civil. He didn't know what to change, and he couldn't really start avoiding her now could he? (Spock said he could, but Jim thought it was rude, which Spock said was illogical, but Jim digresses…)

"Yes, Captain," Serron replied, nodding slightly. "I had the opportunity to converse with Commander Spock again, as he visited Mother's department today. He expressed a desire to see you, but as I was not aware of where you were at that time, I was unable to give a satisfactory reply." Somewhat endearingly, the boy seemed almost a bit stricken by this fact, which caused Jim to suppress a smile. Serron titled his head. "Has the Commander been successful in locating you?"

Jim shook his head. "We had different duties to see to today, so we've been separated. Seems like we've missed crossing paths."

T'Sal titled her head. "Indeed, that is fortunate."

Confused, Jim blinked. "M'am?"

"The Commander's visit was not purely professional. He expressed a concern of my relationship with you. I am pleased he has not spoken to you before I had an opportunity to do so."

Wow, Vulcans. They always managed to pull the rug from under his feet at completely random intervals. Clearing his throat, Jim fidgeted under T'Sal's dark, unsettlingly intense gaze. "Ah…" He really didn't know what to say.

"I find it completely illogical," Serron jumped in, breaking the awkward silence with a distracted frown, signaling he was perhaps remembering the, no doubt,  _fascinating_  discussion that had taken place between his mother and Jim's First Officer. "I find you a very adequate and desirable partner for my Mother. Indeed, I would be most honored to have you as Father."

Jim, who had been in the process of occupying himself with downing a healthy portion of water, promptly jerked forward and spit it all out in horrified surprise.

_Holy shit._

"Commander," T'Sal said, seemingly unmoved even as her son was busy staring at Jim with a look of curious fascination. Her eyes were fixated beyond Serron where Jim could now clearly see Spock striding towards them with a purpose. Where had he come from? Oh shit, he'd been close enough to hear, hadn't he? Jim felt panic claw its way from his stomach to his throat, lips twitching in a forced, stilted smile.

"Hello Spock!" Serron startled at Jim's exclamation, flushing green as he looked over his shoulder just as Spock came to a stop behind him.

"Captain," came the reply, even as always. Inclining his head, Spock included Jim's companions as well. "T'Sal, Serron, greetings."

"Greetings," they mirrored, Serron's stance slightly shy (and wouldn't that have been an adorable sight, if Jim's mind weren't digesting that the kid had referred to 'Father' and Jim in the same sentence).

"What can I do for you?" he forced himself to sound as cheerful as possible, silently begging Spock to ignore what had just taken place and  _save him._

"I have business which I need to discuss with you, sir. If you are able, it would be preferable to depart at the earliest opportunity."

_Spock!_ , his mind cried in joy. He could kiss the guy, seriously.

…which was a very bad thing to visualize, because it was a prospect that had become more and more appealing lately, and that was just  _wrong._

"Oh sure, I'm free now, I just finished dinner," he replied with a shrug, trying to sound as casual as possible (he was pretty sure letting on how truly fucking ecstatic he was for being given an excuse to get the hell out of here was a  _very, bad, idea_ ). Standing, he faced a somewhat disappointed looking T'Sal and a nervous Sarron watching him.

Smiling, he inclined his head. "I apologize, duty calls m'am! See you around, Serron!"

The by now familiar friendly clasp on the teenager's shoulder seemed to settle him, and his mother seemed to relax. Jim left before he could read too much into  _that,_  waving in reply to their good byes as he kept up with Spock's brisk walk. He was just about to thank the man for the save, when those brown eyes of his pierced him in a slightly smug glare.

"I do believe, Captain, the expression goes 'I told you so'."

Jim didn't think he deserved his gratitude after that.

"Bastard."


	8. Jimmy (Part 1/?)

Doctor Leonard McCoy eyed the sad excuse of a building with a disgusted sneer, spine rigid in badly restrained fury. He had never been very concerned about veiling his emotions; he'd encountered so much dishonesty where emotions were concerned that the appeal to put up a pleasant front where there was none had long since crumbled and died. Which didn't really explain why he worked for a goddamned  _Vulcan_  of all things, emotionally constipated and lying bastard as they were (Vulcan's don't  _feel,_  my ass!).

However he did work for a Vulcan, a rather impressive one at that even he had to admit with a slight grumble, and he was here on business, so to speak. It was not a doctor's appointment; he was Ambassador Sarek's 'family doctor', as the Lady Amanda had dubbed him, but not today. Today he had been given a task some idiot had thought he'd be best suited for, which was complete bull, by the way.

Ambassador Sarek, in an attempt to smooth over negotiations, had been persuaded that it would somehow be  _logical_  to let a little local orphan brat spend two weeks with him in the stationed Federation Embassy. Some shit about showing they  _cared,_  or whatever. Public image. Apparently the colony was important, and their wish to break free of the Federation was  _not good._  Or something, Leonard didn't really give a shit. All he knew was that he'd been sent to this _dump_  to choose a suiting kid and bring it with him. All because he was the only human available, except the Lady Amanda, but Sarek would never send his own wife on an errand like this (apparently, Vulcans were possessive and protective non-feeling bastards).

Well, the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he'd be back on the tin can they dared call ship and far away from this unnerving place (too many eyes watching, too many tight lipped people, too ridged, not enough white noise of conversation, giggles and  _life)._

Taking the three steps to the door, Leonard banged a fist against the door, not at all trusting the all but decoying device which would've announced his presence like an old Earth doorbell (he didn't feel like getting electrocuted today, thank you very much). It took a couple of minutes, 5 maybe, and a few more knocks before steps could be heard thundering down a set of stairs somewhere behind the door. Quick, and light. A child, then.

The door squeaked open, and Leonard had to look down to see who greeted him. A tiny boy, all blue eyes and messy curls and rosy cheeks. Dirt streaked across his nose, and the clothes he wore were more rags than anything.

He knew the colony had a lot of humans, but he hadn't expected any of them at a place like this.

"Hello kid," he finally said, softly because he looked so scared, as the silence stretched. "May I speak to Mr. Smith?"

The child nodded, and opened the door wide. Leonard stepped through, eyes sweeping the place, noting that it looked no better than the outside. The small kid (he can't be more than 7, Leonard mused) led the way up a couple of stairs. No one else was in sight, but he could feel eyes on him again, and wondered where and  _why_  they were hiding.

He didn't have much time to contemplate it, as he was led to an office door just down the hall and before he could to do much else the kid bowed and scurried away without a word.

The nameplate on the door read "Mr. Frank Smith" in faded gold. Leonard steeled himself, and knocked.

* * *

JT were many things – reckless, disrespectful of any kind of  _supposed_  authority, loud, bad-mouthed, stubborn to a fault and arrogant as they come – but he most certainly was  _not_  stupid. He'd hacked the government's databanks at age 12 (although he'd gotten caught and sent to  _Hell_  because of it, which he barely survived, but he was back where he'd started again), and if it weren't for the little ones he'd be on the next transporter ferry off of this planet going far, far away and he'd be on it  _yesterday._

But as it was, by 14 Earth years, JT was the oldest and since there was no one around to take care of them as they should, it quite obviously fell upon him. He'd withstand Frank's drunken rages and he'd take any punishment dealt for raiding the safe and getting the money needed for an extra blanket, an extra bowl of soup, and he'd do it all over again as long as they survived. Once they were all old enough, he'd take them with him, and they'd run away and he'd take them to Earth and find them families.  _Then…_ then JT would join Starfleet, and get a ship of his own, and save everyone on planets like these and tear down the corrupt governments and it will be  _glorious._

For now though, he had to concentrate on breathing, because the belting he just got was as vicious as ever when Frank was pumped with Romulan ale. The door slammed shut, shrouding his curled body in darkness as Frank settled into his office next door. The walk-in closet, an improvised room of punishment, was still and silent now with the exception of JT's pained sobs and trembling limbs.

Breathe, breathe, breathe was the mantra going through his head and slowly, the clink of glass and sound of liquid poured and a drunken burp of satisfaction made it through the ringing in his ears. Relaxing slowly, he stayed still for a few moments more to collect himself. Sitting up, he fumbled blindly for his shirt, torn off in haste and thrown carelessly on the floor, and carefully pulled it on. It had survived; no tears in it that weren't familiar. The rough fabric felt like glowing coal against his raw and tender back (skin had broke in places, he could feel the sticky liquid of blood slowly drying), and he gritted his teeth in pain. Nauseous but with too little in his stomach to be concerned, he crawled towards the door and rested his sweaty forehead against it, welcoming the cool surface of wood. He started at the sound of a firm knock, for a moment his heart stilled as he thought it was on the door he was leaning against, but then Frank dropped his glass with a shouted curse before soundly making his way to the door, yanking it open to snarl in the face of whoever stood on the other side.

_"What the fuck do you want?"_

A pause, JT wondered if the person facing a red-faced Frank was hesitating in fear, surprise or reflected anger. He knew what his own response would be, of course, but he was a cheeky little bastard and knew how and when to duck.

_"I am Dr. Leonard McCoy, sent here by Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan. There was a notice sent to you of my arrival and my purpose here, Mr….Smith…am I to assume you were not…expecting me?"_

The tightly controlled anger in that deep, rough voice of a man made him suppress a smile. He liked the way he said the name Mr. Smith like it was the vilest thing he'd ever seen, and really, the tone of you-are-a-fucking-disgusting-idiot was perfected by this man.

Unable to resist, JT cracked the door open silently, peering through the spring into the messy office beyond. The voice could be heard more clearly now, but Frank stood in the doorway, blocking the sight of the visitor. Shoulder stiff, Frank took a step back and invited the man in.

The man was human, and younger than his voice had led JT to believe. Yet lines marred the face flushed in anger, telling stories JT wished he knew.

"Ambassador Sarek, you say? I apologies, Doctor, I had no idea…" Frank trailed off uncomfortably, shifty-eyed and uncomfortable where he was seating himself behind his desk. The Doctor took the seat opposite without invitation, crossing his arms and glaring dangerously. Frank cleared his throat, leaning forward to continue. "But if you would please tell me what the Ambassador would want with a poor orphanage like this…"

JT narrowed his eyes, but before he could process what was being said the Doctor glanced his way and JT almost slammed the door shut in startled surprise. The dark gaze of the Doctor held his for only a moment though, before continuing on around the room as if he hadn't seen anything.

"The Ambassador wishes to extend an invitation of two weeks to a child of this orphanage, and I'm here to choose which one."

Frank jumped into motion, pulling out his drawers and fumbling with old, worn PADDs. He looked eager, if a bit scared, and JT understood perfectly. Connections were important for a man like Frank; he wanted money, he wormed his way into people's trust and respect and he took what he could. He was a drunken bastard, but when he wanted, he could charm anyone stupid or naïve enough. However, here, everyone knew. To send one of  _them_  could be dangerous, if he chose them wrong.

JT opened the door a bit more, safe behind Frank as he was, and caught the Doctor's eye with an intent stare. The Doctor titled his head, listening to Frank mumblings as he tried to get the PADDs into order, raising a brow in question. JT grinned, pointing at himself, and raised a brow of his own. The Doctor's lips twitched, as he interrupted Frank's mad fumbling.

"The Ambassador has a few requests on the child," he said, getting Frank's attention.

"Oh, of course, what would they be?"

JT grinned.

"A human boy, fair colored," he began, lips twitching again as he paused. JT guessed he was trying to keep a straight face, which only made his grin widen. The Doctor resolutely did not look at him again. "As blue eyes are uncommon among Vulcans, he would prefer that as well."

That left Pavel and Riley and himself, JT mentally noted. Frank shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah, yes, we have a few of those. Is there a certain age…?"

JT caught the Doctor's eye again, holding up his fingers to signal then, then closing his one fist and leaving four fingers in the air. 14.

"The Ambassador's son it 16, so he would not want a child under 14, at least."

JT was pretty sure Frank's world just crumbled.


	9. As From You

He's thirteen and his fingernails are broken and dirty from blood and mud, his lips cracked and dry, swelling in places because he's been fighting for days now and sometimes someone lands a hit because he isn't quick enough. But in the end, he wins. He has to, there is no other option. He can't lose, there is no such thing as losing. Because of Kevin and the others, the small ones and a few who are bigger but less smart, less brave, less grown-up than himself. He learns that he only matters when he's got something to protect, because it's then the Universe will try to take it from him, and so he spits and fights some more because they're waiting for him and his bony hands filled with bits and pieces of food and clothes and wood for the fires. Sometimes he steals, sometimes he hunts, sometimes he  _kills._

He does things he had never thought of doing before, things that made Frank's cussing and Sam's leaving and Mother's absence feel like a distant memory of a life that wasn't really his anymore. Life of a boy who died, who had been dying even on the shuttle to this place, who had never really fit in until the starving and the deaths and the blood and the fighting.

It was here he thrived, fighting without ever losing because they're depending on him, surviving because even as he raced towards a cliff and was ready to end it he just couldn't; the Universe wasn't done with him and he wasn't done with it either. It swallowed him, chewed, and spit him out and he was kicking and screaming and laughing as he wrecked havoc on reality and went against the odds and  _lived._

He lived to see his fourteenth year, and fifteenth, twentieth. He never celebrated it, because he was born to death and surrounded by it and it wasn't anything special, just something to fight and to occasionally dance with because fuck yeah, he had the moves, and the music was rhythmic and called to his blood as he downed another shot and fucked another life form because  _oh yeah, he's alive._

Then there's the death of a planet, of a people, of the motherfucker who took his dad and destroyed his family before he even had had a chance to try and maybe do it himself. He gets a fucking ship out of it, and it feels like the Universe is laughing, because he knows of another place where his life was simply life and not death, and so it's bittersweet as he takes his bloodstained trophy and sets out to fuck up the Universe just a little bit more. He's got something to protect and the mission –  _to boldly go where no man has gone before –_  will not fail because he's got his crew and he's got Bones and Spock around him all the time so he's never alone, so the Universe can't stop him, just tripping him so he falls and gathers bruises and scars only to stand up again because as long as there are people around him, he will protect them and he will not fail, and he will not die.

So whenever he lies bleeding on the dirt of a new planet, staring into soft, brown and amusingly  _human_  eyes he knows he won't die yet because Spock's there, and so Bones isn't far away, and when he closes his eyes he will wake up on his ship and life will go on even as death haunts him with dead crewmembers and natives and perhaps another bit of his soul but he doesn't mind; he isn't safe-keeping his soul for anyone and the least he can do for those not waking for another day is follow them as far as he can before life is pulling him back for more.

He hadn't even considered the possibility of a second perspective; his world was his own and so when something alien penetrated it and merged with it he was almost appalled at what he saw through another's eyes. But maybe that wasn't him recoiling, because death wasn't scary, death was ugly and a failure but never scary, never red sands and a woman falling and a people crying. Death wasn't the dark shadows in his mind, the wounds in his soul that he wouldn't heal because they were supposed to be gone, gone with the people he failed, and it was life; breathing, eating, sleeping, fucking, fighting.

Death wasn't what Spock saw in his mind, but there was a soft warmth surrounding him so he didn't argue his point because this was better than dancing to the beat of a lethal tune that followed him like a personal theme music. It felt different than living, it wasn't life as he knew it, and he knew he'd been fighting before while clutching life in his bloody hands with the broken fingernails and cracked lips but  _this….._ This was more precious than the next breath and so he never wanted it to slip away, and fuck the Universe, it wasn't meant for him but nothing ever was so he was keeping it anyway, like the three-legged kitty his mum had thrown out but it hadn't mattered because the next week she was gone and then no one cared if he carried it around and fed it, protected it, cared for it. He could do the same to this, to _Spock,_  because it was Spock who was touching his mind and seeing his life and his death as they waltzed.

_Someone should nurture you, someone should feed and pet you, and someone should live for you and fight and die and love and dance._

It wasn't life as he knew it, it wasn't death; it was Spock and there was more than one perspective and if he'd only  _see_ then maybe this could be forever, something told him, but it wasn't his. His world was what it was, and how could it be anything else, he was here to fight and to protect and to live so submit, be protected, and live, because death is here and you cannot lose, there is no way you cannot win, not here, not in this world, so don't invite a world where it could happen, where loss is possible and death is something more than just a failure, where death is The End and life isn't just life but love and hate and sorrow and happiness.

_One should crave warmth where it is cold; one should crave cold where there is warmth. One should seek the balance, the harmony, of two extremes joined together for perfection, for a struggle to keep it, to continue, to strive for it because it is there and you have felt it._

This was more precious than the next breath, but it was staring into a black hole and wondering what would happen on the journey through, and where it would land him, and so he wouldn't know how to fight, how to live or how to die. Here, he fought to live surrounded and die alone. But what of the other place?

_Parted from you, yet never parted. Friend. Brother. Lover. You are the Universe, you are life and you are death and you are mine. You are James Tiberius Kirk, and you will live and you will die and you will fight and you will live but you will do so with me, because you are what you preach, and you preach of the Universe and so you are my stars and you are my planets and you will never lose, because together, we can only win. Do not narrow your view, do not lose by separating us, see life and death and see love and sorrow and things I cannot name and help me create the world we crave. Name these feelings I have shunned and safe me, protect me, so that I may save you, protect you, and love you beyond my last breath and so beyond the Universe and its death and life. Be my beginning and my never-ending. Be mine, Jim._

And so he can't help but fall and never land because the ground isn't there unless reality says it is, and he's never listened to it anyway, so why the fuck should he do so now anyway?

Spock kisses him and caresses him and  _loves him_  and suddenly life is so much more than fighting for the next breath and dying isn't just about failures anymore but about sorrow and healing and life (because there are so many newborns every second around the Universe and beyond it he can't even comprehend it).

He still cannot lose, because he's still got Spock and Bones and his crew and ship, and he's never alone now, but there's a people crying and a planet missing and his trophies are still bloody but they're there so he keeps them, polishes them, and continues to fight because that's what the Universe demands.

But now he can lie in his arms and catch his breath and know what rest is, what calm is, what life can be and so he's happy and loved and alive. He thinks he prefers it over the monopoly of a lone perspective, and wonders why he never saw life and death as a shared experience, because maybe if he had, he'd found this a bit sooner.

However, as it is now, it doesn't matter. Because there is no end in sight and even if it comes, who is to say it's an end and now just another fight, another experience, another life and another death?

Parted from me, yet never parted. He likes that _, it's Spock_ , and he fucking  _loves_  Spock and he thinks it's his new beat, his new drug, and fuck if it doesn't leave him delirious. Life as he knew it weren't all that great. This, however,  _this_  was fucking perfection.


	10. Sanity (Part 1/?)

_In a mad world only the mad are sane._ **  
**Akira Kurosawa (1910 - 1998)

* * *

_He was dying._

_Maybe that was what colored his view a terribly bleak copper; the familiar sands muted to a dull shimmer and the intense heat oppressive rather than soothing. The air was dense with dust and unforgivable dryness, which sucked what little moisture he had directly through his skin with the violent winds of an upcoming storm. He should not be here, outside, on the balcony. Not only because it was not allowed for patients, but it simply was not logical to aggravate his condition, and cause further discomfort._

_It was not logical, but he was dying, and lately he had come to wonder what logic mattered in the face of this. Besides, he had not been able to make his own choices since institutionalized here; the healers monitoring his every step, his every breath, as they injected him with the newest mutated chemicals, and so however small and illogical this might be, he allowed himself to feel the satisfaction of having chosen this discomfort, having controlled the events which led to this dull pain enclosing him in a dust of sand._

_Closing his eyes, S'chn T'gai Spock allowed himself to remember a time when the sands glowed red and the heat had set him at ease._

* * *

James Kirk – for the heck of it  _Charlie_  for now – didn't really know what he was doing here. Well, sure he did; he'd been there when his mother signed the papers, strapped to the bed and unable to do much about it. So he knew why the shuttle was taking him through Vulcan's capital, and why it was heading straight for their impressive medical and research facilities. He just wasn't sure why  _he_  was on this shuttle. The doctors had already given up; he had his medicine and why couldn't they just leave him alone? He never caused any harm to anyone but himself then, and that was actually a rather sweet deal. Because honestly, he'd rather wake up on the bathroom floor covered in cuts and bruises than having some telepathic condescending assholes pick at his brain.

"Goddamn space elves and their freaky biology; I swear, the Creator was fucking hungover when he made these bloody designs!"

Ah, well, at least he wouldn't be the only human on this little trip. Accompanying him on the shuttle from Starfleet medical was a Doctor Leonard McCoy; famed surgeon and quite the pioneer in the medical research field of the Federation presently. He was all Southern charm; old fashioned, a real sawbones.

"Bones, you've been over those notes 10 times already; didn't you say you wouldn't be able to get any new information until we arrive?"

Innovative, creative, dedicated to his task.

"Shut up  _Charlie_ ; I'm working! Goddammit. And it's  _Doctor McCoy_  for you, punk."

One of the best of human doctors.

"Riiight."

And so, perhaps one of the obvious reasons an Ambassador might request his skills in saving his son. Not that Jim's father was an Ambassador, no, Jim's dad was long dead and there was nothing physically wrong with him. Bones was no specialized psychiatrist.

No, the Ambassador in question was Vulcan, and one might think the fancy institution his beloved offspring was currently confined to would be better off without a doctor and his team specialized in  _human_  biology, when the best Vulcan healers were already appointed the case.

The son, however, had a human mother.

A hybrid, a being of two worlds; an endless list of possibilities of genetic combinations which might prove significant in saving his life. Jim couldn't blame them for calling in "the best" of those two worlds.

However, as for what  _he_  was doing here…well, apparently the frequency of his psychotic attacks were increasing rapidly and there was nothing they could do for him on Earth. He was 17, almost 18, but declared unfit to decide his treatment himself, which left Winona Kirk. What did Winona do when faced with a situation she couldn't quite handle, like when he uncovered his father's old uniform and played dress up? She turned to space. What better to treat matter of the brain with than telepathy, a tool directly wired to it in ways no modern technology had yet managed? And so, those papers had been signed, and Jim had an episode after the doctors told him he was being shipped off world  _again_. To Vulcan. Desert planet; miles of dry, dead earth.  _He didn't want to go back to that place._

But Vulcan was different, Mrs. Sandqvist had assured him, the latest in his line of shrinks. Well, screw you, he'd wanted to say, but the meds were doing their job subduing him and his rather hot temper (he felt rather listless; the opposite of the spectrum. Always extremes, never a middle ground). And so…here he was. A lone patient among a team of esteemed Starfleet doctors assigned to the offspring of some hot-shot Vulcan.

He wondered if they were gonna spare at least a nurse for him, you know, for some human contact. There was a rather delicious looking blonde supplying Bones with coffee every now and then. Chapel, he thinks.

"I'm bored," he announced as the blonde moved away for the fourth time. God, these shuttles took  _forever_. Bones looked up with a frown, eying him and taking in the restrains with the same narrowed look he'd worn when he'd boarded.

"Well, suck it up. I'm not gonna entertain you."

And he was back to his notes again.

Well, fuck.

…Jim was nothing if not creative, however.

* * *

"I told you I was bored! You can't-ouch, dammit!" Jim squirmed, wishing his hands were free again so he could rub his tender neck. The familiar mist of medical sedation was beginning to work its way through his system already, and he glared at the nurses holding him down before narrowing in on Bones – scratch that –  _McCoy._  He didn't deserve any awesome pet names anymore.

"I can and I will, dammit. What the hell made you think breaking out of your restraints was a good idea? Wait, no, don't answer that. Shit. Would anyone care to explain why we have fucking Houdini as a patient and no goddamn security officers around?"

Houdini. Huh. Yeah, well, he still didn't deserve any pet names.  _Doctors._  Geez.

And before he could really start protesting, there was the familiar fading of consciousness that snuck up on him and he resolved to deal with it later. When he was, you know,  _not_  in a drug-induced coma. Dammit.

* * *

When Jim woke, there were two things that registered. One; he was awake. Two;  _fuck_  it was hot. Time for a third revelation, he decided, and carefully opened his eyes. A ceiling of some kind of muted red sandstone greeted him and he blinked in confusion, seeking clue number four by titling his head to the side and take in the rest of his surroundings.

So. He was lying down, obviously. Restrained for the time being. Although not the familiar whites he was used to, the room he occupied was clearly of the medical variety. Because a) he was a patient and b) there were those seemingly universally uncomfortable hospital beds lined neatly on either side of him. They were all empty though, or they appeared to be anyway, as only a few were shielded by screens but no movements could be detected; not even breathing. He didn't felt up to speculate about that, since the unusual lack of beeping finally caught his attention as he'd listened for other occupants. Usually, when he found himself in this position, there was some medical machinery keeping track of his condition. Curious, he titled his head back and looked up.

Huh. Unfamiliar screens adorned the wall with delicate symbols which looked like some kind of hygrographs, complete with complex diagrams of various shapes. Well. Perhaps there were some similarities, he supposed. But still; no sound. No buzz. He didn't know if it was a relief, or if it was just unsettling.

He decided, for the moment, that it was rather unsettling. Alone, nothing but his breathing and the rustle of too-crisp sheets made a sound. There was nothing to indicate any activity behind the doors at the opposite of the room, nor any windows for the outside world. He felt a familiar tug of anxiety and hurriedly took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts _away_  for silence and isolation and the uncertainly of  _when were they coming for him what did they want where could he go is there a way out of here oh fuck the screams but there wasn't any sound that bastard knew he must know silence -_

"-I'm Henry the eight I am, Henry the eight I am, I am, I got married to the widow next door, she's been married seven times before, and everyone was an Henry, she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam, I'm her eight old man, I'm Henry, Henry the eight I am! Second verse, same as the first!" he sang, loud enough to drown out the memories and the voices in his head. There was a note of hysteria in his voice, but as the song wore on with its never-ending lyrics, he allowed himself to get lost in it and wavered in places as laughter threatened to spill out. He wondered how many verses he could go through before someone came to check on him, and determinedly renewed his efforts with a wide grin. If the Vulcans were going to poke his brain, he'd make it as difficult as possible.

That's just how he rolled.

"You are on your fifteenth verse of that song, and there does not appear to be any changes apart from the number of verses. Is there an end, or are you intent on continuing until your vocals chords are no longer able to produce any sound? If that is the case, I ask that you cease."

Jim choked on his  _widow next door_  and jerked up in response to the unexpected interruption. Well, he  _tried_  to jerk up, but all he managed was to buck against the restraints and whip his head around towards to unfamiliar voice. A head of dark, silky hair had poked out from behind one of the screened beds further down the room; eyes dark, slanted eyebrows drawn, pale cheeks slightly green and lips pressed together in a line of frustration.

Huh. Apparently, he shared the nuthouse with a Vulcan.

Awesome.

He figured it was the shock and relief at not being alone which prevented another panic attack from wracking his system.

"What? Not a fan of music? I'm Percival by the way. Who're you?"

And then there was this thing with  _lying._ It wasn't really  _conscious;_  they just…slipped out, the lies.

"Yet the song would indicate that you are Henry VIII. You seemed quite insistent on stating this fact."

A Vulcan with humor? Yeah, Jim could totally get down with that.

"Nope! It's Dave! But you still haven't told me your name, man!"

Stiff sheets rustled as the Vulcan rearranged himself and opened the dividing screen further, revealing more of himself where he sat Indian style at the foot of his bed. He titled his head with a confused frown, and Jim wondered if he'd have to just make up a name for the guy as the silence stretched for a few moments.

"You stated your name was Percival, yet you claim it is Dave."

Well, damn, there was that thing about lies again. Maybe he should settle for Charlie again?

"I like a little bit of variety in my life. So, come on, I've given you  _two_  names, but you haven't even given me  _one!"_

At this, the Vulcan straightened and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "My name is Spock."

"Not, like, Francis or something?"

"…no. I stated my name as Spock. It is as it is."

"…I think still think something like Myron would suit you."

"…illogical."

Jim laughed.  _Really?_

"As if logic has any place around here, Francis Myron Spock.  _We're all mad here._ "


	11. (How Spock met Jim) Cadet with Dubious Morals

Spock stared at his PADD for an additional 1.2 minutes before surveying the occupants of the public shuttle a second time. Illogical, since upon his first thorough observation he had not encountered anything suspicious, but he had been unable to curb the initial reaction of startled  _confounded_ curiosity.

There, on his 2.3 months old PADD, on which he had been pursuing the latest science articles published in his preferred prescribed journal up until 3.1 minutes ago, a separate message box was opened with the neat computerized curves of Standard's letters bidding him a  _good morning_  in a most illogical manner. He knew these public transportations utilized a wireless communication system to which you could log on, and proceed to contact anyone else operating the system within the shuttle. Which was precisely why he had blocked the system from accessing his own PADD, for he had no desire to converse with anyone during this unfortunate stretch of time he spent on transportation such as this; vocally, telepathically or by written messages.

And yet, there is was.

**_Good morning sunshine!_ **

Since observation had resulted in no further answers to the questions this provoked, Spock then proceeded to back-track the signal in order to locate the device which had obviously hacked his own.

**_Not gonna work, coz I'm too awesome._ **

Spock frowned at the interruption, the lines of codes rendered useless as they encountered a line of corrupt numbers. Apparently this person did not want to be found. Perhaps another tactic then.

_Who are you, and for what purpose have you hacked my PADD's security system?_

He did not bother with pleasantries, for the situation did not warrant it, and he was…slightly irked. Unnerved. He had files on this PADD which should not be seen by anyone with a rank less than Commander, much less anyone outside of Starfleet. They may not be of a significant threat to security or Starfleet in general, but to have someone access it so seemingly effortlessly was…unnerving.

He put in another code as he finished his query. The reply did not take long.

**_I'm a bored person on a crappy shuttle, with too much time on my hands, and an interesting person within sight. You can't blame me for wanting to entertain myself._ **

Raising a brow, Spock entered the last bit of code and tried again, only to have the screen beep and flash red for 1.3 seconds. No results.

_That is illogical. There are exactly 13 people utilizing this service quite willingly, as opposed to myself. I ask again; why have you hacked my system? How did you do it?_

This time, a rather crudely drawn figure of some kind appeared on his screen, before followed by a reply. He stared at the uneven lines, wondering what it was supposed to look like. A simplified face, as he had seen his mother draw, with dots as eyes and a curved line as mouth. Smiling.

**_You're much more interesting than anyone of those 13 could ever hope to be. As for who I am…why don't you try to find out?_ **

That had been precisely what he had been doing, but as the transport slowed and the press of people made to get off, Spock was unable to reply before the line of unexpected communication was broken.

* * *

**_You've changed PADD. Afraid I'll look at your porn and read your diary?_ **

It had been illogical to expect the stranger would find him once again, but Spock had, and although he had been unsure if it would be necessary to switch to a new PADD that held no more files than those necessary for his short daily trip he was now pleased he had done so.

_That is illogical; I am not in possession of either of those. However, it was a necessary precaution, considering the documentation of sensitive files I had stored on the device. I would not risk them being exposed._

**_Psh, I can get a hold of that any time I wanted, with or without your PADD hooked online._ **

Spock frowned.

_You are Starfleet?_

**_Perhaps._ **

**_Or I might just be a really awesome hacker. I'd say the latter is pretty conceivable. Yeah?_ **

_Or both._

**_Or both._ **

* * *

It continued for days. Not necessary every day; Spock was looking for patterns in how often and at what times he was contacted but it was always on the same shuttle. Spock had several theories, and even as he discarded some, new ones presented themselves. The unknown person engaging him in idle, frustrating but surprisingly fascinating communication was offering him little to no information which could aid him in narrowing down the possibilities.

When the topic of the shuttle's mechanics and finer operations were broached, he thought the person might be a mechanic. Then he quoted Shakespeare, and further on, several Terran and extraterrestrial classics – some Vulcan, he'd noted with surprise – which would suggest literature to be of interest. Then there was physics, and mathematics, and somehow Spock felt more intellectually stimulated than he did conversing with his colleagues.

**_Well, this is my stop. See you around, sexy._ **

It was the first time there had been any indication as to where the person might be going, and the fact that Spock was already preparing to get off himself at the usual station provoked a rather illogical physical response of his heart skipping a beat.

Looking around, he searched for someone, anyone, engaged with a communication device; PADD or otherwise. He saw none. Against the press of bodies, he quickly typed a message.

_You are a cadet._

He was in a sea of red, after all. They were by the stop closest to the Academy.

**_Or I'm messing with you, and leading you off your trail. I think I like your guess of 'Professor' better. But good guess! You're improving._ **

_You want me to find out who you are. Yet you will not tell me. Why? Where are you? What do you look like?_

He got no response, and the crowd of cadets was already noisily making their way through the gates into the Academy. It wasn't until he was taking his lunch, going through the afternoon classes' notes one final time, that these strange series of events took another step in whatever direction it was headed, and his PADD flashed with an unexpected, but now familiar, message.

**_I'm your negative to the positive, as you're the positive to my negative._ **

**_I'm a cadet._ **

* * *

Opposites; that was all it could mean. He'd spent the time he was supposed to be meditating thinking about it, having doomed the usual activity impossible in his current state of mind.

What was his opposite? The first one would indeed be cadet, as he was an instructor. It would also be someone who appeared illogical, he gathered. If it had been a response to his inquiry of physical features, it would be someone shorter, of fair coloring. Perhaps blonde hair and blue eyes. Maybe green. Could it be a female? Pink complexion instead of green. Cool skin.

The person had become human in his mind before he could consider the illogic of simply assuming such a thing.

* * *

_What should I call you?_

It was the 7th time he had posed this question, although this time, he had opted to word it…differently. He noted it was more efficient than  _"State your name"_  as his PADD beeped softly with an incoming message.

**_You may call me J.T., Mr. Spock._ **

He was the only Vulcan in Starfleet, and so it should not provoke any reaction at all that this person already knew his name. Yet…he swallowed, and wondered why this  _J.T._  had not addressed him by his name prior to this. It would certainly have been more logical than  _sunshine, sexy, handsome_  and any other highly subjective adjective that had been used.

_The list of cadets with the initials J.T. is impressively long._

**_You'll just have to narrow it down then, won't you?_ **

_Indeed._

**_But who said that was my full set of initials?_ **

Spock fought the urge to toss the PADD aside in frustration and decided it would be beneficial for a short period of meditation before he left for his next lecture.

* * *

_"Narrow it down"_ , J.T. had asked him to, and he had done so, using as basis their previous conversations, which he had all saved on a separate chip safely put away in one of the drawers in his quarters. It "narrowed it down" to a cadet taking advanced computer programming; most likely he or she was invested in tactical as well, given J.T.'s impassioned discussion on strategies and the fascinating chess games they had shared online. More accurate than that, Spock could not…. _guess._  The cadet was proficient in such a wide variety of subjects it would be impossible to form their study plan with the data he currently possessed.

And so he set his computer on scanning the system for a cadet with initials including J and T (it had been "hinted" that these were not the only ones, so he made for it to include other possibilities as well) with above average grades, taking tactical and computing sciences, with a few unlikely species excluded. The resulting list was shorter, more manageable, but he expected it would take 3.2 months to arrive at a viable answer without any further data.

Not ideal, but agreeable. It would seem he would just have to collect more data, and continue this search, if only to confront the cadet properly on Starfleet conduct and illegal hacking.

* * *

**_So…I'm bored. Entertain me._ **

_I do not have the time to engage you. Might I suggest you turn your attention to your studies, or friends, if you possess such social ties?_

**_Hey! Play nice! That's not nice… And yes, I do have friends, but he's kicked me out of our room. Turning his attention to his studies. I'd be very attentive with Xenobiology too you know. If I took it, would you give me…private lessons, Professor?_ **

_As I do not possess a degree in anything medical, and only took the necessary courses on Xenobiology, there is no logical reason for me to consider private tutoring, Cadet. If you are interested I suggest you apply for the course next semester and seek out the proper individuals for tutoring. Such as your friend, perhaps._

**_God, I love it when you talk-well, write, really-like that. But seriously, there's a very logical reason for private tutoring involving you and me. Let me in your office and I'll show you._ **

_It would seem likely that you know where my office is located, Cadet. You may present this "logical reason" by reporting to it during my office hours._

**_Oh, I will, once you figure out what I really meant by all that. Because you don't know, you're just trying to trick me into revealing myself._ **

_Indeed. I am to assume you will reveal yourself once I have discerned the subtext of our conversation?_

**_Well, that's up to you, Commander._ **

**_Also, "I do not have the time to engage you"? Bull. You just "engaged" me. Later, handsome!_ **

"….." Spock stared at the screen, feeling his left brow twitch but ignoring it in favor of taking a 1.3 deeper breath, exhaling slowly.

J.T. was roomed with a cadet studying Xenobiology, and did not take the course personally. He made a mental note to add these criteria in his computer's scanning program at a later date. First, this experiment had been neglected 4.5 minutes too long (it had required repose for 20.3 minutes during which he had intended to wait, but Cadet J.T. had interrupted 2.1 minutes into this).

Illogical.

* * *

Spock considered the file before him. 22 years old, human male. Repeat offender previous to Starfleet, yet his aptitude tests were abnormally high. Enrolled in the Command track, the fast program reduced from 4 to 3 years, designed by Spock himself for Cadets with higher than normal intellectual needs. Fascinating. Even more so with the suspicious amount of sealed or missing files in the Cadet's history, beginning with his birth.

Stardate 2233, there was a lightning storm in space resulting in the starship  _USS Kelvin_ meeting its violent end against an impossibly advanced Romulan vessel. The sacrifice of Acting Captain George S. Kirk saved 800 people, among those, his wife Lieutenant-Commander Winona Kirk and…their son, James T. Kirk.

J.T.K.

It was a logical conclusion to make. Cadet Kirk would be skilled enough to hack a computer system, and had the dubious morals to conduct such a thing as well. His aptitude tests reflected the wide breath of knowledge revealed in their conversations, and the Cadet's picture showed a young man with the telltale human pink complexion, dark-blonde hair and intense blue eyes. Illogically attractive and compelling; it was only a picture.

In many ways this Cadet was  _the negative to his positive, and the positive to his negative._

_You are James T. Kirk._

It was not a question. He did not receive an answer, even after 29.4 hours, which was 3.2 hours past the longest pause between messages so far.

_After researching the illogical practice of idioms in Human conversation, I have discerned that you wish to engage in sexual intercourse with me._

He waited.

**_And if I did, Commander?_ **

_It is against regulation._

**_That wasn't a "no"._ **

It was not.

* * *

It was illogical to experience such anticipation, when he should merely be pleased he finally had all the data needed to confront the Cadet on his conduct. He should be visiting his dorm with the threat of brining him up on charges, and yet…

And yet the Cadet had not hacked onto any Starfleet computers, to his knowledge, only his private PADDs, and he had not accessed any files, merely established a link of communication that would have been available to anyone possessing his private contact information. His Academic records were also very…promising. Spock did not doubt there were a fairly large amount of Cadets who had previous records on less than admirable conduct prior to Starfleet, and the fact that Cadet Kirk had been accepted to the Academy showed his records were not of any special concern.

There was also the fact that between the bouts of illogical conversations riddled with idioms and subtext he had no way of clearly understanding, their discussions had been…compelling; fascinating.  _Engaging._

Perhaps he was trying to justify the undeniable interest he had developed for this Cadet from initial contact to finding his true identity.

Perhaps.

There was a knock on his door, and Spock looked up from the lesson plans he was organizing. "Come."

The door flung open with unconcealed enthusiasm and he was met with the sight of a grinning cadet; intense blue eyes catching the light from his windows.

"I'm here for my private lesson, Professor!"

"Indeed. Perhaps one in manners would be suitable, Cadet Kirk."

Silently pleased at the illogically attractive laugh that escaped pink lips, Spock watched with an unfamiliar kind of anticipation as the door closed behind a slender body clad in Cadet-red.

"Call me Jim, gorgeous."


End file.
